Persons attempting to find a motive will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot will be shot.

Friday, June 25, 2010

The Room

The Room

In this small room, where we one shadow cast--A bouncing bug, legs twitching, on its back-- The walls are jet For with one motion we have made them black.See how it dies, our captured silhouette,Starless and fading, for we have at lastCovered our wounds with love's red tourniquet, Leaving us only touch to guide our hands And satisfy the urge of our demands.

For even in the dark we close our eyesAnd trade our names as if we are unsure Of who we touch: We make of what we cannot see a pureDark bliss of sighs and sightlessness, so muchThat as we join, we do it in disguise,Masking ourselves to make our love endure. For love needs night, like cattle need their mangers: At night, even the old make love as strangers.

And as we dress each other with our dreams,Who knows but that this room will sympathize, Since it has known A thousand other throats to match our sighs,A thousand tenants who left it alone,As we will leave; so like a room, it seems,Is love, that holds, and hopes, and dares, and dies-- Its rented heart doomed to an empty center, As we are doomed: to pierce, but never enter.